


night on the town

by pyalgroundblz (acidtonguejenny)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidtonguejenny/pseuds/pyalgroundblz
Summary: In which Graves is either the devil or a vampire and Credence is too sad and cold for self-preservation.





	night on the town

A stranger has been watching him. 

Credence sees him from the corner of his eye, darkening doorways and leaning in alleys. 

He’s a well dressed gentleman. He wears a long, black coat that looks wonderfully warm to Credence’s eye, the shoulders speckled with snow, and a dark scarf. He doesn’t wear a hat, and his bare head sets him apart in a crowd even on dim streets at dusk--because it’s always dusk when Credence sees him, or full night. Never before the sun dips below buildings. 

When the stranger finally approaches him, suspicion has given way to wild curiosity. Credence sees him step away from the lamp post he’s stood against for the past hour or so, yet he doesn’t move from where Mother posted him.

His heart pounds as the stranger comes closer. Dark eyes bore into his. He feels like he’s stuck, like he’s fixed to the sidewalk.

He should walk away. He should go home. 

If home were safety, he might’ve done so. But home is dark and damp and cold, runny noses and Mother’s footsteps in the hall like a metronome. 

So he remains rooted, and allows himself to be hypnotized by flashes of stunning white against gray, New York twilight. The lining of the stranger’s coat. 

His eyes, Credence sees, are the same deep, deep red of his scarf.

*

The strangers asks him his name, and Credence tells him. 

“Call me Graves,” says the stranger. He stands. Credence can feel the warmth that wafts from him, which only reminds him how cold he is. He shivers.

“I knew you must be cold.” Graves says. He brings a hand up and feels the thinness of Credence’s coat between his fingers. “Not much protection, is it?”

Another shiver rolls over him; Credence allows that to be his answer.

“Credence,” Graves says, clapping him on the shoulder companionably. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Graves takes him to a department store and buys him a winter coat. It’s thick wool, with a silk lining and deep pockets. Credence says nothing during the process of trying on possibilities, and only stands behind him as he makes the purchase. Graves drapes it over his shoulders and pulls it around him while the clerk smiles.

“Hmm,” he says, eyeing him up and down. “Not quite there, I think.”

The clerk evidently agrees. “Menswear is just over here, sir.” She says, pointing. 

And so Graves holds up shirts for Credence’s approval, reading signs he doesn’t know he’s giving, until a dark green one is decided upon. Credence is given vests and pants and jackets to try on, and when they leave he’s wearing all new clothes down to his socks.

Graves gives him a pair of gloves lastly, unwinding the scarf from his own neck as Credence wiggled his fingers inside. Credence ducks his head to accept it, cheeks burning from more than the cold.

Graves gives his buttoned coat a smart tug, and takes a step back to appraise him. 

He smiles. “You’ll do.”

Credence finally finds his voice. “Do for what?”

Graves winks, taking his elbow in a guiding hand. “I’ll show you.”

Credence has an idea where they’re going before they reach it. It’s getting late, and only some types of businesses remain open at this hour. 

Graves takes him down an alley, around a corner, and down a stone stairway to a security door. 

He knocks. The door opens, caught by its chain. Credence can’t see anyone on the other side, and no one speaks until Graves leans in first and says something. The door closes, opens again, and they’re allowed in.

Inside is darker than the street, so much so Credence has to squint, and the other patrons are reduced to smoky, laughing figures. Jewels and flashing tie pins. 

Graves nudges him into a round, overstuffed booth, pressing up against his side. His arm stretched across the back of the seat. 

The air feels thin. Credence closes his eyes to breathe, and when he opens them again there is a bottle and two stout glasses on the table. Graves pours and hands one to Credence, and clinks their glasses.

“To new horizons,” says Graves, teeth bright in the murk of the joint. “Cin cin.”

Credence’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods and drinks, wincing against the burn. He pinches the bridge of his nose as it bleeds up into his sinuses. Graves pours again, and he drinks.

It is an easy, mechanical pattern. Graves pours, and he drinks. Food appears next to the bottle, and he eats. 

Credence doesn’t know how long they stay. He doesn’t know how much he drinks. He feels--fine, until Graves stands him up, and he staggers.

Graves chuckles, undisturbed by the jostling. He wraps a firm arm around Credence, fingers digging into his side. Credence has no choice but to lean on him as the world swims and the contents of his stomach slosh alarmingly

“You’re doing well for a first timer,” Graves says, warm and soft. Despite the din, he doesn’t speak loudly; their faces are close together, enough that Credence feel his breath on his cheek.

Graves picks up a glass from the table--his own, untouched from the first--and brings it to Credence’s mouth, fitting the rim between his lips. He tips it back slowly, gaze heavy-lidded and watchful as he marks each swallow. 

Credence isn’t sure if he’s gotten used to the taste or if his tongue is numb. The liquor goes down smooth. 

*

The night becomes flashes. Coming out into frigid air, finally feeling like he can breathe again. Wanting to stumble as they walk, but he’s held fast against Graves. An apartment building, a stairwell that is too warm through his new coat. A dark, close room and thick, springy carpet beneath his feet. 

Graves removes their coats and puts them on a stand by the door while Credence waits, swaying. He takes Credence’s borrowed scarf and pulls the gloves off his numb hands. 

Then he takes Credence’s face in his hands, cold fingers on cold cheeks.

Graves’ dark eyes are the largest thing in the world. Credence’s eyes drift from one to the other as he marvels at the odd maroon color, like the filling of a chocolate truffle.

He realizes that Graves, the stranger who has silently stalked him for weeks, is stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs, feather light. 

To new horizons, he thinks, and more or less falls against the older man, aiming for his mouth.

Credence has been kissed and embraced by people from church, by his mother who always kisses him squarely on the head; touches he’s never sought or wanted. 

He misses, but the stranger huffs a laugh, his breath cool. Graves leans in, face turned up and expectant, and waits. 

Credence thinks he wants. Wants to choose. He’s dizzy and too focused on Graves' mouth to feel shame, and that is a unfamiliar, heady state of being. 

Graves' lips are crackling dry but soft beneath his own badly chapped lips. Stubble scratches Credecene’s cheeks and hands move down either side of his neck. Graves' silk vest is cool and smooth beneath curious fingertips.

Credence kisses with sloppy intent, forceful with decision, unknowingly taking suggestion from Graves' cues. What to do with his head, how to breathe, to use his tongue and what to do with it. He holds Graves' face in a mirror of the hands on him, and turns him where he wants him. He kisses so thoroughly that he has backed them into a wall without knowing.

Graves lets him. Meets each touch with his own and giving encouragement when Credence wanes in uncertainty. He draws his body closer and steadies him when he sways, which means heavy hands on his waist and back. 

Places he’s never been touched, but for his mother’s belt. His skin tingles violently beneath layers of clothing. Credence never knew there were so many things two people could do with their mouths.

Graves pushes him gently, some indeterminate amount of time later. His hair is in disarray, strands falling into his eyes. His lips are dark and swollen and shine wetly. 

Credence can’t look away from him, eyes flitting greedily from lips to throat to Graves’ dark gaze. He’s panting.

“You’re a quick learner, Credence.” Graves says, low and scraping. It makes Credence’s belly clench, is what finally makes him realize that he’s grown stiff in his new trousers. 

Credence panics. He drops his hands and tries to back away, but Graves holds him fast, arms wrapping him up. Cutting off escape.

“Where are you going?” Graves says with a wolfish smirk, eyes glittering. “We’re having fun.”

“I--I am--” Credence stutters helplessly, without knowing what he means to say, and he whimpers in relief when Graves kisses him silent, drawing them even closer than before.

Credence’s eyelids flutter as he opens his mouth beneath Graves’, a broad and firm thigh fitting itself between his legs…

...and teeth. Sharp teeth that cut his tongue when he’s careless, though he feels little and cares less through the alcohol haze.

Many things have seemed less important since the gin joint, others since the department store and the wool coat. Credence gave himself to the Devil; he walked with the stranger prepared to face whatever came next. 

“Relax,” says Graves with a hiss. He smiles, allowing Credence to feel the vicious shape of his incisors against his top lip. “I just want a bite or two. I showed you a good time, didn’t I?”

Credence nods dreamily. 

“The fun doesn’t have to end here,” Graves tells him assuringly, pressing his thigh into Credence’s groin. “Trust me, Credence.”

“In for a penny,” Credence says, after a too-long pause and an audible swallow, and he lets Graves tip his head back. Gasps at the pinch and plunge that feels like something altogether different from fangs piercing his skin. 

_It'll be good,_ he hears Graves say, though his mouth is sealed to Credence's skin and his tongue engaged in massaging his pulse point. _You're a hell of a first timer._

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to clean out my WIPs b:


End file.
